


unannounced in the middle of the night

by renecdote



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Feelings Realisation, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Not-so-platonic bedsharing, hurt Buck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29839887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: “You’re lucky they didn’t break your nose,” Eddie tells him. “Or your ribs.”He hasn’t missed the way Buck is holding himself stiffly, back straight, breaths carefully measured, like it hurts to breathe too deep. And Buck clearly doesn’t miss his poor attempt at a subtle question. His lips twitch, the attempt at a smile immediately twisting into a wince. “You know,” he says, striving for lightness despite the obvious pain in his voice. “If you want to get my shirt off, you only have to ask.”“Okay.” Eddie crosses his arms. “Take your shirt off.”Buck gets hurt. Eddie fixes him up. Feelings happen.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 622





	unannounced in the middle of the night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'that hurt' and 'blood'.
> 
> Title is taken from a line in the poem _Mouthful of Forevers_ by Clementine von Radics.

When there is a knock on the door just before midnight, the last thing Eddie expects to see is his best friend bruised and bloody on the front step. It’s not that it’s Buck—although he usually calls ahead first—it’s more the state of him that is so surprising. There is a cut above his eyebrow, blood down the side of his face and smudged across his forehead, one eye turning black, cheek a swollen and painful-looking mess. His lip is split as well and there’s a dribble of blood that suggests his nose was bleeding not too long ago.

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Buck shuffles, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “Um. Can I come in?”

Eddie opens the door wider. Buck comes in, then stands in the middle of the living room looking more awkward than he ever should in Eddie’s house. He’s over here all the time, having dinner and playing video games and sometimes just hanging out doing nothing at all. Eddie doesn’t like seeing him look so uncomfortable, so unsure of his right to be here. He reminds himself that Buck asked to come in. Maybe he’s second-guessing himself now, but when he got hurt, he came here.

“Go sit at the table,” Eddie says. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Sit,” Eddie repeats, tone leaving no room for argument. He waits until Buck is moving in that direction before he goes to the bathroom and grabs the first aid kit from under the sink. He takes two steps into the hallway, then doubles back and grabs a washcloth as well, letting the water warm before he wets it under the tap. When he gets back to the living room, he’s almost surprised to find Buck sitting there, looking awkward and uncomfortable, but waiting patiently.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Eddie asks. He dabs at the cut above Buck’s eye with the damp washcloth and Buck hisses, holding himself unnaturally still against the instinct to twitch away.

His voice is thick, lisping slightly from the bruised and swollen lip, when he replies, “I would’ve thought it was obvious.”

“That you got into a fight? Yeah.” Eddie puts down the now-bloody cloth and reaches for a cotton ball and a bottle of Betadine instead. “It’s the why that I’m not so clear on.”

Buck won’t meet his eyes, gaze trained somewhere around Eddie’s chin. Eddie doesn’t push him; he knows from past experience that Buck will open up to him, even if it takes some time to get there. He focuses on cleaning the cut with the antiseptic and closing it with a mini butterfly bandaid. It’s not bleeding anymore, which is good, and as long as it heals nicely it shouldn’t scar. God knows Buck already has too many of those.

“I didn’t fight back.” Buck’s voice is quiet, confessional. “It wasn’t really a fight because—because I didn’t try to hit them back.”

Responses flash through Eddie’s mind. _Why not?_ and _of course you didn’t_ and _them? plural?_

“They slipped something into this girl’s drink. I didn’t see it, but she was—she was out of it, Eddie, like really out of it. I could tell she wasn’t just drunk. I’ve seen it before, working as a bartender, and—this girl fit the profile. Young, attractive, drinking alone. The guys who were taking her outside said they were her friends, but I knew they weren’t. I just—”

“You just wanted to help,” Eddie finishes.

“Police response would have been too late,” Buck says. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

Eddie could tell him it was stupid or reckless or a hundred other things, but there is really only one response that feels right. 

“I know,” he says.

Buck is the very definition of a Good Samaritan. Although from what Eddie remembers of that story, he’s pretty sure the Good Samaritan is the man who helps, not the one who gets beaten and left for dead. 

“You would have done the same thing,” Buck says quietly.

Eddie shrugs. Maybe. Maybe not. He might not have noticed the girl was anything but drunk. He _definitely_ would have fought back—and probably earned himself an assault charge for his trouble. 

“I’m not mad,” Eddie says. It feels important, to reassure Buck of that. “I do wish you hadn’t got hurt though.”

There is another, smaller cut on Buck’s cheek. Eddie cleans that too, judging it too small to need a bandaid. He steps into the kitchen to throw out the cotton balls, then washes his hands and grabs an ice pack out of the freezer, wrapping it in a clean tea towel before offering it to Buck. Buck stares at his outstretched hand for several long seconds before he takes the ice pack and presses it against his eye. The right side isn’t too bad, but the left eye is swollen almost shut and Eddie is sure he’s got a killer headache to go with it. He finds a bottle of Tylenol in the kitchen junk drawer and hands over two pills with a glass of water. Buck is smart enough not to argue about taking them.

“You’re lucky they didn’t break your nose,” Eddie tells him. “Or your ribs.”

He hasn’t missed the way Buck is holding himself stiffly, back straight, breaths carefully measured, like it hurts to breathe too deep. And Buck clearly doesn’t miss his poor attempt at a subtle question. His lips twitch, the attempt at a smile immediately twisting into a wince. “You know,” he says, striving for lightness despite the obvious pain in his voice. “If you want to get my shirt off, you only have to ask.”

“Okay.” Eddie crosses his arms. “Take your shirt off.”

Buck blinks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Eddie affirms. He reaches out to pluck the hem of Buck’s black t-shirt. “I want to see how much damage I’m going to be lying to your sister about the next time I see her.”

“Why would you be lying to Maddie?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Oh so you’re going to tell her the truth?”

The way Buck shifts is unmistakably guilty. “Actually, I was thinking she doesn’t need to find out at all.”

“Right.” Eddie can’t keep the doubt out of his voice. He gestures to the black eye. “Good luck hiding that from everyone. You know that as soon as Chimney sees it, he’s going to tell Maddie her baby brother got beat up.”

“I’m not a baby,” Buck protests—well, whines, really, Eddie can’t even be generous about it. “And I didn’t get beat up, I just…” Eddie waits, expectant, and Buck grimaces. “Okay, fine, so maybe I got a little bit beat up. I wasn’t exactly expecting them to start throwing punches, usually creeps like that are scared off more easily.”

Eddie is a little surprised they started throwing punches as well. The bar scene, assholes lacing drinks—it’s not something he has a whole lot of experience with, but he knows fighting. Buck is a big guy, tall, basically a wall of muscle; he’s not the kind of person you’d start a fight with if you didn’t already know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

“What happened to the girl?” Eddie asks. 

Buck shrugs, then winces. Definitely bruised ribs, at the very least.

“Someone else called 911. Last I saw her, she was with the paramedics. I guess they took her to the hospital.”

 _They should have taken you to the hospital_ , Eddie thinks. But knowing Buck, he waived off the offer to get checked out, insisted he was fine. It’s a small consolation that he came here instead of going back to his empty apartment to patch himself up alone. 

Although, it’s possible that was just because he didn’t want to face the stairs up to the loft.

“I still want to check your ribs,” Eddie says. When Buck looks like he’s going to protest again, he adds, “You should change out of this shirt anyway, it’s got blood on it.”

Buck looks down, like he’s surprised to find that it does. “Okay,” he sighs. “But if it hurts I’m blaming you.”

It does hurt. Eddie helps him peel the shirt over his head, but Buck still hisses, biting his lip so hard that fresh blood wells up. Eddie murmurs apologies the whole time, then murmurs a few more when his gentle prodding around Buck’s torso elicits a heartfelt, “Fuck, ow, don’t they teach you how to be gentle in the army?”

They don’t, but Eddie doesn’t bother pointing that out. “I don’t think they’re broken,” he decides. “They’re gonna hurt like a bitch for a few days though. You’ll have to call Bobby in the morning and tell him you can’t work.”

“Don’t say that,” Buck groans.

“Sorry, man. You’ll thank me when you’re not struggling through a twenty-four shift while you’re barely able to move without pain.”

Other things that will be happening in the morning include a trip to the hospital, just to be sure that nothing is broken, but Eddie decides not to pile that bad news on as well.

“Anywhere else that hurts?” he asks. 

Buck shakes his head.

“Good. I’ll get you another ice pack for your ribs. Are you alright getting to the bedroom on your own?”

“Bedroom?” Buck echoes. It’s hard to tell whether the expression on his face is confusion or just pain.

“You’re hurt,” Eddie reminds him. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed,” Buck protests. “Eddie, seriously, I’ll be fine—if you’re so worried about the couch I can just go home—“

“Buck,” Eddie interrupts. “Shut up. You’re not going home and you’re not sleeping on the couch. Now, do you need help to the bedroom or…?”

Buck holds out, stubborn, for another half a minute. Then he sighs. “Fine. But I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

Which is how Eddie ends up lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every pained hitch in Buck’s breathing beside him. Buck keeps shifting, clearly uncomfortable, unable to find a position that doesn’t hurt. Eddie knows exactly what that’s like and he feels caught between sympathy and anger at the men who did this. At least when Eddie was getting beat up it was his own stupid choice; all Buck wanted to do was help someone.

Buck shifts again, breath catching, and then a cold finger pokes Eddie in the side. He jerks away, a cut-off yelp getting stuck in his throat.

“What the hell?” he hisses.

Buck pokes him again. “Stop thinking so loud, ’s making my head hurt.”

“Getting punched in the face is making your head hurt.”

“Shhh.” When Buck’s fingers find him this time, it’s not to poke, it’s to twist in his t-shirt. Eddie waits for more, but it doesn’t come, Buck is just—holding onto him? “‘M okay, Eds, you fixed me.”

 _I shouldn’t have had to fix you_ , Eddie thinks. He takes a breath, feels it expand in his chest and remembers the way even breathing hurts when you’ve got busted ribs. His voice is quiet, almost lost in the darkness, when he admits, “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

There is something there, something in the words, just out of reach. He wonders whether Buck hears it. He wonders whether he’s going to poke at it, pick it apart, question it further, until Eddie is forced to confront all the reasons he doesn’t like seeing Buck hurt. The easy answer is that Buck is his friend—his _best_ friend—of course he doesn’t like seeing him hurt. The complicated answer is… complicated.

Buck frees his hand from Eddie’s shirt, but before Eddie has a chance to miss the touch, those fingers are ghosting over his wrist, reaching out to tangle their hands together. Eddie’s breath catches. They’re lying here, in his bed, in the dark, holding hands. It feels… forbidden. But also—nice. Easy?

When Buck speaks, his voice feels closer, even though Eddie knows he hasn’t moved. “I never said thank you.”

“For patching you up?” Eddie asks. “You don’t have to—”

“For not being mad,” Buck clarifies. “For understanding.”

_I couldn’t stand by and do nothing._

_I know._  
  
“You don’t have to thank me,” Eddie tells him.

They are already holding hands, so it’s easy to squeeze, to hope everything Eddie else doesn’t know how to say carries across. _Always_ and _I’m glad you came to me_ and—there, that missing piece from before, slotting itself in like it’s always been there— _I love you_. When Buck squeezes back, it feels like _I love you too_.

Eddie waits for the panic to set in, for the spiral of doubt and uncertainty to suck him in, but it never comes. He stares up at his bedroom ceiling, hyperaware of Buck breathing beside him, and all he feels is—peace. Contentment. 

Love.

It feels right. 

Eddie turns his head, looking at Buck’s face on the pillow beside him. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, bruises almost invisible in the moonlight. He’s beautiful; that part is not a realisation. But it’s different, seeing it up close, knowing that all he would have to do is reach out and—

Buck’s eyes open slowly, finding him in the darkness. Somehow Eddie knows that he’s smiling even though his lips have barely moved. “First the thinking, now the staring…”

“Sorry.” Eddie flushes at being caught. “I was just…”

His tongue ties, no excuse at at the ready. The way Buck’s thumb caresses the back of his hand doesn’t really help. 

“Go to sleep, Eds,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

The words could mean anything. They could mean exactly what they say and nothing more. But Eddie doesn’t think so; there is too much promise in them for that. Saying _I’ll be here too_ feels a little ridiculous so Eddie just says, “Goodnight, Buck,” and hopes that Buck hears his own promise in the words.

From the way that Buck shifts closer, closing the few inches between them, finally relaxing enough to fall asleep, Eddie thinks that he probably does. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is fun because it refers to Buck showing up AND Eddie's feelings. This is a rare occasion for me and I'm very proud of it because usually my titles are meaningless lol.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are love 💛 And you can also find me on tumblr [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/).


End file.
